


Kicking ass is easy (but emotions are really hard).

by orphan_account



Series: Fullmetal Femslash February 2014 [12]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, F/F, Femslash Challenge 2014, Femslash February
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 04:57:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leaning against the counter and crumpling the foam cup of coffee into the bin, Winry palms the newspaper. Cheap ink leaves prints of black and white on the inside of her palms.<br/><em><br/>THE ICEMAN LOSETH: MYSTERY HERO “STEEL LIGHTNING” DEFEATS, REVERTS ICE ALCHEMIST</em></p>
<p>“See what I mean?” says Paninya, reaching over Winry’s shoulder to tap the blurry photograph. “<em>Steel Lightning</em>. What fuck kind of superhero name is <em>that</em>?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kicking ass is easy (but emotions are really hard).

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Femslash February. Prompt I4 on my bingo card, "Superpowers AU".
> 
> This went all over the place and also not where I intended it to go. CHALLENGES ARE HARD MAN. I'M FEELIN' THE HEAT. If the AU doesn't make any fuckin' sense it's because I'm lame and I wrote this at two in the morning and whatnot.
> 
> Unbeta'd/unedited/etc. Enjoy at your own risk!

Leaning against the counter and crumpling the foam cup of coffee into the bin, Winry palms the newspaper. Cheap ink leaves prints of black and white on the inside of her palms.

_THE ICEMAN LOSETH: MYSTERY HERO “STEEL LIGHTNING” DEFEATS, REVERTS ICE ALCHEMIST_

“See what I mean?” says Paninya, reaching over Winry’s shoulder to tap the blurry photograph. “ _Steel Lightning_. What fuck kind of superhero name is that?”

Winry shrugs. “I like it. Hey, at least you’re _named_ now.”

Paninya grins. Lifts a hand to offer a palm. Winry slaps her five hard enough for the sensation to sting. “About time, too. ‘Chems been ‘round here more’n more. Figure they can smell live bait or something.”

With a grunt Winry shoves her shoulder into the girl’s jaw. Paninya reels backwards. “Who you callin’ a fresh meat greenhorn?”

“Didn’t know I was dating Eddie.” She rubs her jaw. Opens her mouth experimentally. “So tell me about the ice dude. Isaac MacDougal or whatever the hell he said his name was.”

“Mm.” Winry pushes herself up on the counter and rolls up her torn pants’ legs. Her fingers convulse, if for an instant, at the sight of the painfully cold crystals growing from the reddish welts extending deep into her flesh. Where the chill descends to the quick of her bone the icicle protrudes a centimetre or two beyond her skin. Snatching the first aid kit, her girlfriend crouches between her thighs. “Pretty nice guy. Real apologetic. Thanked me over and over, offered me his kids’ hands in marriage if I wanted ‘em. Said he’d pay me or something.”

“I was watchin’ you, y’know. GIven that I was in the damn fight. How was the reversion?”

Tendons flex in her neck as she frowns. “Yeah, it was a little harder this time. Big whoop.”

“It _is_ a big whoop, dumbass.” Paninya flicks a finger against the syringe. “This is gonna hurt.”

“Always does.”

She injects the anesthetic. Winry observes the swirls of blue and white in the countertop surface while Paninya, handling the needle with an expertise born of years of being a vehicle, digs out the transmuted fragments. She hears them tinkle innocently into the sterile pan. Her flesh knits together with an burning irritation despite the numbness in her leg. Paninya grabs her hands. “Wait for it to heal, stupid.”

“This isn’t the first time I’ve been injured.”

“Yeah?” She wipes the residual sweat and grime from the wound. Examines the transmuted crystals. “We gotta get this to Central, pronto. They’re always lookin’ for new research.”

“‘Course they are. They’re _Central_.”

Sealing the crystals in a thick plastic bag, Paninya shoved them into a drawer to mail once the post office opened and bustled about making herself a second cup of coffee. “So, how’s my tenor doin’?”

“Your tenor’s _doin’_ fine.” Alchemy marks scar her skin in two diamond-shaped arrays on either limb. She’s heard of the ugly patterning from older tenors, but she never expected to see the scars, nicknamed shingles, on herself. Winry rolls her fabric down once more. Covers the evidence of her life. “Ready to revert more alchemists. How’s my vehicle doin’?”

“Much the less, Miss Rockbell.” Paninya strikes one leg against the other to hear the clang. “You checked up on Eddie and Al yet?”

The phone springs from the cradle to her ear. “Lieutenant Hawkeye? Mm, good morning! Could I talk to the colonel? Oh. I see.” Beat. “How’s Al? And Ed?” Beat. “Yeah, I guess. But he’s _okay_ , right? Not in critical condition anymore?” Beat. “What about Al?” Beat. “Oh. Okay. Could you call me if anything new happens?” Beat. “Mmhm. No problem.” She stares at the black receiver as though the serpentine plastic were about to sink its fangs into her wrist.

Paninya snatches the receiver as it falls from Winry’s limp grip. “Oi, listen up. Dunno if you heard, but a chem manifested here last night. Icy powers. I didn’t get a good look at the transmutation circle, but the bastard transmuted part of Win’s leg. Yeah, she’s healed. I got the samples and I’ll send ‘em over. They’re hot.” Pause. “Yeah, I guess they’re cold, but y’know that I mean. Listen up. Oi. _Oi_ , listen to me for a second, would you? There’s been an uptick in alchemist manifestation. Yeah, he reverted. Real guy’s okay at the moment. But Win says they’re getting harder for her to revert. Could’ja send in another team while we fuck up repeatedly? Thanks.” She slams the phone into its cradle with more force than necessary. The plastic creaks, bends, splinters on the edge. “Still critical, right?”

Winry shrugs nonchalantly. But she cannot cease the slight shiver in her shoulders. “They both manifested. Ed says his dad’s a bastard, but at least _he_ left when he sensed it. DIdn’t want to get his family involved. Ed just kept chugging until . . . and then Al . . .” She makes a noise in her throat like a drowning kitten. Her tears burn her eyes until she thinks that maybe she’s gone blind and maybe that’d be nice. “Two brothers. The perfect fuckin’ team. I _built_ his automail limbs; I _built_ the vehicle.” Paninya’s muscled arms envelope her fluttering body; Winry buries her face in the warmth of her girlfriend’s chest as she crosses her legs to run one over the crystalline scar. _Forever_ scar.

“WIn, listen,” starts Paninya, but she shakes her head, her bangs mussing and tangling against the staticky fabric of Paninya’s shirt.

“And Al, one of the best tenors in the East, better than me and my parents were such incredible tenors that they went on to just fucking become doctors.” She wipes her tears with a swipe of the sleeve that leaves her face red and patched. “They were fuckin’ perfect and then and _then_ they had to fuck everything up. ‘Cause Ed manifested and then that set off Al and we should’ve _known_ after their dad and _fuck_. And they were vehicle-tenors so the fuckers just shoved them in the holding pen up at Central to scream and cry and be retrained for _three years_. _Idiots_ , all of them.”

In the safety of the circle of Paninya’s arms, Winry can dissolve, for a moment, into grief, into anger, into her soul. But it doesn’t matter how hurt she may be: She’s a tenor.

She’ll rejuvenate to fight onwards. She always does.

 

“ _Being a tenor means that you alone hold the power to revert manifested alchemists. This involves sealing the transmutation circles that appear upon their bodies as a result of their manifestation. Alchemists, beings capable of transmuting the laws of the world, manifest in the bodies of innocent people. The method by which or the reasons for why alchemists manifested have yet to be determined. Tenors possess rapid healing skills and a sort of tele-empathy that allows them to respond to the alchemist and to their vehicle_.

“ _Being a vehicle means that you alone hold the power to defend the nation against manifested alchemists. With your automail bodies equipped with enough weaponry to equip a small country, you can beat back the manifested alchemists until your partner tenor can reach in so close that she, he, or ze is capable of reverting said alchemist. Like tenors, who are born with such abilities, vehicles must display an affinity for automail attachments: Not everyone can waltz around with steel limbs, and not everyone’s nervous systems are capable of syncing to an automail port in the first place. Vehicles possess advanced weaponry to combat the variety of alchemist powers, such as control over fire, explosions, metal, earth, sound, or water, to name several examples of previous famous manifested alchemists._ Lan Fan, are you listening?”

“I’m perfectly capable of _remembering_ what we already know, Ling.”

“No, but the Amestrisians’ve got these little pamphlets! Just look at all of the pretty pictures! The paper’s so shiny. What if I made out of these shiny papers?”

“Then you would be the one wearing it. Because I would sooner throw myself from a cliff than wear something like that.”

“I meant it for me! I like the words they’re using. You’re my vehicle and I’m your tenor. Hehe, you’re my _vehicle_. Ow. Tenor and vehicle and alchemist. Manifest. Alchemist sounds a lot like alkahetrist, doesn’t it?”

Lan Fan’s hand flies to cover his mouth. No matter the Xingese pouring from his throat, she glances at their two companions: her grandfather, generally frowning as he usually does, and the Chang girl, her hood drawn over her face. “It’s not as if the people of Amestris know what the word _alkahetrist_ means,” May butts. Her panda punctuates her sentence with a squeak. “They don’t have an equivalent here.” She sighs. “For some reason I don’t think that the people of this country know how to achieve inner balance.”

“You should be happy that the Chang and the Yao agreed to work together against the higher-ranking Clans,” Lan Fan snaps.

She pokes her tongue out. “Oh, I’m _oh so grateful_ for the opportunity.”

Lan Fan grits her teeth. “As you damn well _should_ do.”

Ling waves his arms, slinging them over the shoulders of the princess and the retainer alike. The women growl at one another from their headlocked positions at his chest. “Hey, we’re all in this together. Well, _you_ two are anyway.” Lan Fan blushes; May twists away from his grip, resettling the cloak to hide her face. Ling checks: no hint of a circle visible  “C’mon. Maybe we can get some food somewhere, do you think?”

“ _You_ don’t,” May says, nodding at the alleyway in which they are currently lost.

“Maybe if we play dead some idiot will take pity on us,” Lan Fan mutters under her breath.

Ling claps. “Perfect! I knew I could count on you for _ideas_!” He dives into the entrance of the alley, flopping over pathetically and wheezing like death approached rapidly, capable of being staved off _solely_ with frosted cupcakes and other confectionary sweets. May and Lan Fan stare at him, then at one another.

Fu walks briskly to Ling’s side and lies down, mimicking his master’s motions exactly.

 

The rocket sings from her kneecap directly into the alchemist’s chest. Whirling around, the brute roars, the transmutation circle glowing on his face and chest. He lunges towards the already broken fountain at the centre of Rush Square. With spurts of water pooling around the base, he lifts up a pair of massive goldfish that flap uselessly in his palms. The circle shines silver. Scales bubbling and fins roiling, the goldfish meld together into a monstrosity of split tails and double mouths, gills flaring from a need for water. As he adds more and more fish, the animal swells up like some sort of corrupted balloon, if balloons could be armed with fangs and claws. The beast slithers from his grip to slap across the cement.

Reaiming the rocket launcher, Paninya shoots again. The transmuted fish explodes into a rainshower of blood and innards. “Winry!” she screams. “I’m almost out! Can’t you _do_ anything?!”

The tenor leaps from side to side on her still-wobbling legs. Although her tall boots cover the icy scars of her run-in with the ice alchemist, as she cartwheels, the boots slip and stretch, revealing the tops of the frigid diamonds. “I’m _trying_!” Winry yells back. Ducking towards the alchemist she digs her nails into his chest where middle loop of the array circumscribes his heart. Paninya watches the transmutation circle flicker on and off. He tries to snatch her arm. Creed to never hurt an innocent human or no, Paninya fires her final shot, severing his limb whole. The arm falls to the side and wriggles as it disintegrates. Grabbing his shoulder, he springs the array into life. A massive growth of flesh shudders outwards, oozing bodily into a tentacle vaguely resembling a handless arm. Winry’s eyes narrows. “ _Just revert the fuck back you piece of shit!_ ”

Paninya checks her supplies: out. Entirely out, at least of long range, but she can’t let, _won’t_ let that walking compost pile do anything to injure her girlfriend. Just as she nears, she sees the arc of the tentacle angling towards Winry’s back. Paninya screams out a warning, but she’s too far away, too _far_ away.

Silver glint. The thrashing tentacle lands a few metres away. Another silver glint, and the alchemist’s legs vanish into clouds of choking smoke and wet red droplets. A person dressed entirely in black stands over the alchemist’s prone body, automail arm as sable as the rest of xem, while a boy with a yellow robe and long hair slicked back into a distinctive ponytail knees the alchemist in the crotch prior to slicing into his chest. The mutilated form pulses and writhes with alchemical energy. A beat. Two. Three. The alchemist reverts back to a mortal human, a mortal human currently missing three-fourths of his limbs. Winry staggers away, vomiting, collapsing. She’s in Paninya’s embrace within a second; some deep part of Paninya fears that at last they have pushed once too hard, that at last the end of times has come, that she does not know how to _do_ this.

Holding Winry’s hair back as the tenor throws up, coughing up what Paninya thinks might be both of her lungs and half of her intestines, she strokes the tears from her girlfriend’s bloodshot eyes. Winry moans weakly. Blinks towards the dying human. She gestures towards Paninya, who brings her ear close: “Is h-he ok . . . is he okay?”

The human. The _human_ , bleeding out his life. Their saviours, now multiplied into four with an elderly man and a young woman in a pink cloak, collect the human’s limbs and gather them around his torso as though desecrating him. Winry almost yells; Paninya aids her limp over. The intruders converse loudly in a foreign tongue. The boy drags the pink girl forward; the person in black, whom Paninya now recognises also while a woman now that she has removed her facial covering, crowds over her other side. Something _glows_ within the girl’s hood. Abruptly the man’s shrieking cuts off: He stares at his torso. Blood drenches all seven. The reverted alchemist. The four strangers. Winry. Paninya.

“What the fucking _hell_ was that? The fuck is this! The fuck is that! The fuck are _who_?” Paninya sputters, Winry heavy in her arms.

“I’m alive,” the man gasps. His eyes bright and irised and _human_ despite the transmutation circle still awash on his chest and face. “I was one of them _things_ , but I’m _alive_?”

The boy beams. “‘Course you are. Thanks to May here.” The woman in black slaps her palm over her face. “What?”

“ _How the fuck did you do that?_ ” Winry screams.

Silence.

Quiet.

Then the boy blinks. Folds his drooping sleeves across his chest. “I’ll tell you,” he offers, “ _if_ you buy us lunch.”

 

“So, uh, Ponytail Boy.”

“It’s a phoenix tail! Y’know, like the Yao Clan? Phoenixes?”

“Mind tellin’ us something already, before I wrench your brains out whole?”

Over the ten or twenty stacks bowls and plates towering precariously over the table at the hole in the wall diner called the Junebug, the three kids swallow their last portions. The elderly man has loped off somewhere outside, for reconnaissance, or so the woman in black explained. Said woman now leans forward, glancing at the boy in yellow still gorging himself on the last bowl of noodles and then at the girl in pink, her hood hiding the entirety of her face and some sort of small black and white cat sitting in her lap. “My lord?” says the woman in black.

“ _Riiiight_. Name’s Ling. These’re Lan Fan and May.” He thumbs at each in turn. Lan Fan conceals her expression; May waves.

“How did you magically patch up that chem?” Winry interjects. Paninya starts counting the check; her wallet feels about five months’ of pay too light.

“Not really magic. Dragon’s Pulse. Alkahestry, y’know?”

Simultaneously Winry and Paninya turn their heads towards one another like they were connected by a string. Then back at Ling. “Alkahestry?”

Lan Fan sighs. Props her elbows up on the table. “When what you call an ‘alchemist’ manifests, there are two options.” She taps the index finger of her right hand with that of her left. “First, the alchemist cannot control his powers, and so he becomes infested with demons and must be put down.” Taps the middle finger. “Second, the alchemist learns to balance his powers, often with the help of alkahestry, and so he discovers his true potential as an alkahestrist.”

“So you’re saying that that guy’s an alkahetrist now?” Paninya squints.

Lan Fan nods. “If so, he’ll be able to make use of his God-given blessing now that he has passed judgment.”

Paninya’s hands curls over Winry’s. The same thoughts. The two boys, the two manifested alchemists, languishing in their chains in some dank holding pen in Central, writhing in pain and straining against cuffs biting into her flesh. Winry swallows. “How do you know? That sounds like a load of . . .” Paninya squeezes her fingers. “I know what I saw, but still. The thought of an alkahewatchever, of a manifested alchemist somehow regaining both humanity and alchemy . . .”

Ling reaches over Lan Fan’s shoulders to nudge May. “I can show you guys something,” he says, his eyes glinting mischievously, “but only if you _promise_ not to make a big what’s-the-word?”

“Hullabaloo.” May giggles under her hood. “Should I show ‘em? You guys promise not to say a word?” They promise. She draws the cloak down to her shoulders. Winry inhales; Paninya’s eyes widen at the telltale black arcs inscribed on her skin.

“A chem,” Paninya hisses. May recovers her face.

“An alkahetrist.” His voice mild, Ling tilts his head to one side. “If you’ve got an issue, some kinna alchemist or something, we could help you out. if you could help us out, too. We’re lookin’ for something y’know.”

Winry’s fingers slip into Paninya’s palm. The latter can _feel_ her smile even without any sort of tele-empathy. “I have a feeling we could arrange something like that.”


End file.
